


Paper Cranes

by smallybells



Series: Paper Flowers [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bitterness, Denial, Domestic, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Frisk, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No More Resets (Undertale), OC, PTSD, Past Character Death, Peaceful, Post-Pacifist Route, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader's name will be revealed later, Romance, Selectively Mute Frisk, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Sybil is in third person, Tags May Change, Tragedy, Trauma, monster racism, puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallybells/pseuds/smallybells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's a legend out there that if you make a thousand paper cranes, your one true wish will be granted." </p><p>He chuckled resentfully. "i have a lot of wishes, kiddo. wishes that are too good to be granted."<br/>---<br/>A year after her death, Sans tries to take the first steps of healing, despite how shaky and reluctant they are.<br/>He learns how to breathe without the pain in his chest. He learns how to laugh without the hate in his tone. He learns how to relax without an emptiness in his soul. </p><p>And he learns how to love you without feeling guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually had a dream that i wrote a sequel to paper flowers. it makes sense considering the amount of loss i endured lately. the dream was all about emotional healing, taking steps forward, and learning. being educated. carving your path again. and it was very heartwarming 'til i had to wake up for school.  
> so, here it is. a sequel. and i'm actually incredibly serious about this sequel. i plan on continuing with this installment, so keep your eyes peeled open.
> 
> PSA: if you haven't read it yet, you should read the first fic in order to understand what happens in this one. keep some tissues and a warm blanket. you seriously may need it if you don't have a heart of steel.  
> [Paper Flowers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5790103/chapters/13344892)
> 
> *reader is a different character  
> *sybil is referred in third person  
> *but she will be mentioned. a lot.

_I'll be here... In these flowers, in these messages, in your memories._

_I'll be here._

_In these flowers._

_In... in these messages... in..._

_I'll be here..._

_In your memories._

Sans sockets were closed as he surrounded himself with the echo flowers. The weakness in her voice was too much. It hurt him, even after almost a year without her. It pained his soul, squeezing it and milking it until he was dry of emotion. Not a single soul had entered that secluded section in Waterfall since her final visit, and the flowers did their job by concealing and protecting the final words Sybil had spoken. 

 _I'll be here..._ it whispered. _She_ whispered. 

_In these flowers._

_In these messages._

Sans sat up sharply from the floor and rubbed the corners of his eyes. There were visible, dark marks under them. It was as if he hadn't slept in years, and those circles were damn near permanent. He knew that someday, these flowers will no longer speak the words she spoke before her death. He knew that they will be snuffed away, just as her life was guttered and put out, and different words will be replaced. 

The thought disgusted him.

" _Every time death visits, there will be pain,_ " Toriel once said weeks after Sybil's death. " _The worn-out separation, the deep wounds that surely will leave scars... But every death brings a new birth, and new opportunities for us to seek out. New hands to hold, new hugs to embrace, new love to cherish._ "

It was evident that Toriel tried so hard to serve as the middle-ground for Sans, much like Sybil did. Toriel tried so carefully to choose her words, while they came out so naturally from Sybil. And yes, Sans did appreciate the gesture, may it be small and worthless. Yet, he understood where Toriel came from. She endured a loss. Multiple losses. 

But he wasn't Toriel.

He doesn't bounce back and brush off the dust. 

He doesn't focus on the future. 

Not a day goes by where he doesn't think about Sybil. When he cracks a pun, he thinks about how Sybil would either laugh, or shove him in feigned annoyance. When he sees Papyrus and Mettaton, he remembers the time he had so foolishly lashed out, when all she did was nothing but good. 

He would wake in the morning, and subconscious throw his arm over the empty side of his bed. Feeling. Waiting for that warmth she carried.

He would realize that she wasn't there. 

 

She was gone.

 

He would wait, just wait for a second. Maybe she would emerge from the bathroom door, or he would find her in Toriel's flat with Frisk. 

He would look, to see that maybe she left a note. A flower.

But there was that same empty space on that bed. No indents, no mass of covers created by her, no soft snores or mumbles, or dry drool that flaked across her cheek. 

 

No Sybil.

 

_I'll be here._

 

Where?

 

_In these flowers. In these messages._

No.

 

_In your memories._

 

It wasn't enough.

 

And while the flowers kept whispering her sweet words, Sans left Waterfall, the ancient chanting of her blessings ringing in his mind.

* * *

Sans had a routine now. He would wake up, eat some of Papyrus's terrible spaghetti, and head to work with the occasional disappearances to Waterfall and for nap breaks. He would visit Grillby's for a nice, tangy drink of ketchup, or if he was feeling adventurous,  _liquor._ And then there was his home, his empty bed, Sybil's old clothes he kept under his bed that still smelled faintly like her, and the heavy lull of sleep would wash over him. 

Sybil became a prominent figure in his life, renowned for her words and her ability to bring a smile. He wondered if he saw her at a point when crossing the streets, and was startled on how much the strange girl resembled her. Her skin looked soft, and her cheekbones, hair, nose, and eyes were eerily identical to his formal lover. And the strange girl stared at him when she was crossing the street, wondering _why_ a skeletal monster was staring at her, _why_ he looked as if he were about to burst into tears...

And why he looked so eerily familiar, trying to vainly find a place for him in her past, because that look of hers screamed  _'I know him!'_

But Sans lifted a hand in a simple wave. A sour, melancholy dip of his eyes, and the shakiness of his breathing evident of his sorrow.

He didn't see the strange girl again.

It was a week after Sybil's death.

Everyone else had been the same. Although Papyrus only meant good, true and pure good, Sans was certain that his brother and Mettaton had the aversion to a small, fleeting idea of finding someone else for him. And the thought made him smile despite himself. He had thought of sex after Sybil, of pleasure and release—yes, he had _flings_ —but he had not thought of love. Of romance, of warmth and closeness, afraid to lose someone again to mother nature. She will always haunt his thoughts. While he slept, she would creep in his mind, and he would dream of saccharine dreams of them both. 

The thought of taking in a lover, sexually or romantically, both frightened and thrilled him at once. 

But it left a taste of bitterness on his tongue.

Sans was on the streets again in the ever-bustling city, filled with smoke, neon lights, traffic, and sex. Low fog hovered over the streets while the rusty balcony bars croaked with each step one would take over it. Shrill car horns and the low bass of music harmed his sensitive ears, and the throng of bodies pressed together when crossing the streets and shimmying his way through the gaps of humans. Naturally, he ignored the stares. It was a reflex. 

But the masses of bodies thinned when he approached his destination, and while it was still early in the week, the street Grillby's was on was difficult to tread. The sidewalks were lined with street performers and homeless, with killers, and with hooded humans and monsters alike. And with the smell of grease and alcohol, and the faint scent of cigarettes, Sans felt at home. And even more so when the sound of a guitar rose up to a roar; a heartbreaking solo that seemed to make the instrument itself sob. He found in the recent months that live music at Grillby's seemed to be more fitting than that dusty, old jukebox. 

He settled into a bar stool, paces away from the memory of Sybil he had pushed to the back of his mind. While Grillby was serving other hungry, eager guests, Sans turned his attention to the platform that was built for musicians. There was a guitarist on stage, a young Caucasian on the heavier side, with a young and cherubic face. The pianist next to him was older, probably in his late-thirties, and had sweat-matted hair hanging in his eyes as he played. And the bassist, an elderly man of mixed lineage with silver hair and a long, wiry goatee that coiled down some inches. They tuned their instruments, reaching over for glasses of water that Grillby had handed to them as a compliment of their talents, as well as to keep them sated as they poured their hearts to their music. Can't have them fainting of bliss on the stage now, right?

Sans slouched and closed his eye sockets, letting his breathing even. 

He needed to clear his mind.

He needed some food. He needed a drink. 

Then, a voice assaulted his ears. And for a moment, he forgot everything he had known.

 _She wore blue velvet_  
_Bluer than velvet was the night_  
_Softer than satin was the light_  
_From the stars_

 _She wore blue velvet_  
_Bluer than velvet were her eyes_  
_Warmer than may her tender sighs_  
_Love was ours_

The voice permeated his senses as he found himself staring on the makeshift stage with all the wonderment and admiration in the world painted on his face. The woman on the stage swayed her hips at the soft music the men provided behind her. She did not have the same voice as Sybil; her voice was harsh and airy, while Sybil's was simply lower and calming. 

Realization struck Sans. 

He watched her close her eyes at the music, eyebrows knitted in careful concentration, and her lips round and pursed, preparing for the next verse. 

 

The strange girl on the street.

The one he had mistaken for Sybil.

The strange girl on the street.

_Ours a love I held tightly_  
_Feeling the rapture grow_  
_Like a flame burning brightly_  
_But when she left, gone was the glow of_

 _She wore blue velvet_  
_But in my heart there'll always be_  
_Precious and warm a memory, through the years_  
_And I still can see blue velvet through my tears_

And yet there are many factors that contributed to her appearance that made Sans comprehend that this was _not_ the very Sybil he loved. The strange girl's height, her voice, her movements, the way she tucked strings of hair behind her ear so lithely, so gently. And as the music led up to the final verse, she clasped the microphone stand and opened her eyes.

 _She wore blue velvet_  
_But in my heart there'll always be_  
_Precious and warm a memory, through the years_  
_And I still can see blue velvet through my tears_

The thunderous applause woke Sans, and only then did he realize he was no longer at the stool, but in front of the stage where his neck ached from staring at the woman before him. Her talent, no doubt, drew the attention of many. And yet he couldn't tear his gaze away from her.

The girl who looked like Sybil.

 

As if it was intentional, as if it was _willed,_  your eyes settled on him—short, large and stocky, with his irises disappearing in his skull, leaving a void of emptiness in where his eyes are supposed to be, a ring of blue slightly visible if you squinted. And though you knew beyond a shadow of doubt that you have never spoken to him, you could have sworn you have seen him once. Passing by on the street, lingering with a sad gaze.

But you have never spoken to him.

And you felt your heart break, and tears swell up in your eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT!!! OHHHH MY GOODNESS YES THANK YOUUUU THANK YOUUUUU!!! ; A; i received every single one of your comments and read them throughout the day, even during class. and i admit that yes, i definitely teared up. good god, people. ;u;  
> i also started [gofundme](https://www.gofundme.com/2mtfwqas) if y'all would like to take a look. my boyfriend encouraged me to make one after he read all your comments. 
> 
> yes, i show your comments to my boyfriend.  
> he wants me to make you cry more.

"Thank you." you murmured into the mic after everything had stopped, after the deafening silence hovered, and you looked away from the skeletal monster who had stared earnestly at you. You passed him, your nose turned down to your feet, and you seated yourself on one of the stools by the bar. Another woman replaced your position on the stage, in little more than a scrap of red fabric had perched against the guitarist's lap, laughing and wriggling her hips. But the man, clearly uncomfortable, shifted until she slid off, huffing in indignation. Observing, you could see how the man tried to brush off the imaginary debris she had left in his pants. 

"Burger or fries?" Grillby's voice filtered through your senses, and lifting your head you stared at the fiery man, who languidly scrubbed an empty class with a cloth. 

"Hm, tough choice," you started, sarcasm dripping in your words. "I'd go with both for tonight. And a box for leftovers." 

When he nodded, you lifted your hand to stop him. "Wait—" and when he slowly turned around, you dropped your hand on the marble counter, and wrinkled your nose. "Is this place always like this? You know, with..." you inclined your head, a gesture towards the people gushing through the doors of his bar, grinding and drinking, laughing loudly and spilling drinks. Making a _mess_. " _them?_  I don't mean to sound rude, but I heard this place used to be a homestead for monsters. And now it's filled with the outcomes of defective condoms."

You wondered, for a brief moment, if Grillby even had a sense of humor. But you heard a whisper of a chuckle, deep and gravelly, and he turned around without giving you an answer. And so you leaned forward, propping your elbows on the counter, and rested your cheek on your hand as you waited for the table. The woman in red on the stage began her song, and her voice was velvet and harsh, coarse and bold, as she rocked her hips to and fro against the music. You turned and watched, in awe how the rest of her composure slipped through her fingers. She was very beautiful, there was no doubt about it. She had a youthful look, but you could tell that she was in her mid-twenties, or even more so. Curvy, but lean, with flaxen curls and well-formed muscles in her arms that opposed her elaborate makeup. 

And there was you, sticking out like a sore thumb on a formidable side of town. You at least made effort with your outfit and makeup, for the desire to look presentable never fails to engulf a young woman. 

The smell of _pure grease_  infused your sense of smell, and turning to see Grillby push a plate of his signature dish in front of you, a grin widened and your eyes crinkled from the small token that made you indescribably, _remarkably_ happy. And you extended your hand towards the left, reaching for the bottle of ketchup that sat alone—

"i think that's mine." 

The voice was low in your ear, so sudden and sharp that it made you take in a large breath, and jerk your hand back to your chest. You saw the skeletal monster next to you in an instant, like _pure magic_ , and you quickly flushed. 

"Jesus _Christ,_ " you hissed, eyes widening in pure and simple _shock_. You saw his chest rise, a sign of a chuckle, you presumed, as the music and singing grew louder. You exhaled deeply. "I'm sorr— th-the whole bottle? I mean, I didn't know, I— _Jesus Christ._ " 

"chill, chill," he said diffidently. "and that ain't my name, sweetheart. good guess, though." 

You took a moment to _glare_ at him, until he decided to make himself home at the seat next to you. You recalled seeing him nearly a year ago, on the streets between traffic stops, giving you a numb, nonchalant wave before disappearing behind the passing of cars. And now you saw him again, peering at your singing figure, _then_ scaring the _living daylights_ out of you. 

You turned your attention to your food, and he took the bottle of ketchup you had desired to pour on your beloved, _heavenly_ fries. 

"how 'bout you tell me your name first?" his voice sounded strained, as if those words were foreign on his tongue. As if he was _uncomfortable._  

"______."

 

No.

 

You were not his Sybil.

 

Your voice wasn't the same. Your attitude was strikingly different. 

The more he looked at you, the more he was repulsed. 

Not by your appearances, but by how stupid he was for thinking that _you_ were _her._  

There can never be another Sybil. 

There can never be another solace. 

 

But maybe,

just _maybe,_

he can imagine. 

 

"hey, i know a good place to go. somewhere that's quieter." 

 

He still had his desires. His longing for Sybil.

To feel her soft touch against him; her sweet, tender moans in his ear, her taste and her smell. 

And if all you did was bury your face in a pillow,

and moaned in pleasure—

 

"No, thank you." 

 

He could have easily imagined Sybil under him. 

Sybil in your place. 

 

"okay." 

 

But he knew better. 

He knew better than to defile the memory of her.

 

You took the box that Grillby had set beside your plate, and you began to pour the rest of the food inside, deciding to take it home and eat it alone. Eat it in _peace._  Wiping your hands against a napkin, you hopped off your stool, held the box in your arms, and you looked at the skeletal monster. 

"Good talk, Mr. Bones." 

 

Like Sybil, you disappeared. 

* * *

"Okay, Frisk, now we'll be moving to triple digits. One hundred and thirty-four minus eighty-seven..." 

They tapped the tip of their pencil against the paper, before hunching forward to scribble down the answer below the line. You took the paper when they finished, and smiled at their improvement. 

"I remember when you didn't even want to touch a math worksheet a few weeks ago. Look at you now!" you beamed, and Frisk smiled softly and moved their hands. 

" _You make it easier._ "

"Well, I'm glad," you said, pulling a chair and sitting next to Frisk. "and if you need help in any subject, I won't hesitate to jump right in. I'm just a few blocks down the street." 

They smiled again, and you did, too, feeling a certain closeness with the child. 

 

Something so warm.

 

Something so familiar.

 

" _You remind me of a friend,_ " Frisk started. " _A sister. A cousin. A second mother._ "

"Really?" you raised your eyebrows. "Who?"

 

Frisk swallowed.

Their hands fell to their lap.

And they shook their head.

 

"It's okay—hey, hey, it's okay," you placed a hand on their shoulder and rubbed it soothingly. You worked with kids. It was your job to tutor them, to lift their spirits. You've seen this a thousand times. "Thank you, Frisk. No worries, alright? How about I make some tea?"

You walked to the small kitchen in their two-bedroom apartment. You could see how Toriel made an effort to present their home at its best. You knew the signs. A favored vase—white porcelain with tulips painted on the front perched on the side table, clutching a handful of tired, pink geraniums. And the cushions were fluffed and propped against the sofas neatly. Tile floors were scrubbed clean, fine china was in its rightful place and not soaking in the sink, waiting to be washed and dried. 

The kettle whistled minutes after you had placed it over the gas stove, and you searched the cabinets for tea. "Which do you like?" you called out. "Vanilla chamomile? Sleepytime? Lavender?" 

You looked back at the child, who rounded their lips, and shrugged their small shoulders. You chuckled. "Lavender it is." And bringing the beverage you sat opposite of them. They watched as you poured into two different cups, adorned with delicately painted flowers on the rim. 

It was just the two of you. The room, the flowers, the tea. 

Frisk cupped their tea in two hands, and you saw how the fingers on each hand plaited tightly over one another. 

Warily, you broached the subject from before. 

"Did you love them?"

Their eyebrows knitted. You continued. "Your friend, I mean. The one you mentioned earlier." 

Frisk sipped their tea, and made a face. They burned their tongue, most likely. Then, pushing the cup aside, they lifted their hands.

" _Her name was Sybil._ "

 

Sybil.

 

_Sybil._

 

"Sybil?" you repeated when they spelled it out. "That's a pretty name." 

 

Sybil. 

 

_Sybil._

 

" _You sort of look like her._ " 

 

Why? Why does it sound so full? Why does it sound so heartbreaking?

 

"I do?" 

 

Frisk nodded. " _You're nice like her, too. And you're good to me, and mom, and even dad._ "

 

You wanted to cry.

You wanted to hold Frisk tightly.

You don't know why. You had this feeling, too, when you looked at the skeletal monster days before. 

His sad, empty eyes. His thin voice when he spoke to you. The stiffness. 

 

" _She told me not to be afraid. Not to be afraid of death._ "

 

Your breathing constricted.

 

"Was she afraid?"

 

Sybil.

 

" _I don't know._ "

* * *

He lifted his hand, his fingers swirling in the air as blue tendrils of magic extended from his fingertips. In front of him was a faint, cyan silhouette of a woman, with gentle curves and a smile that was contagious. She twirled and giggled, that honeyed sound being but a faint memory of his.

Magic does wonders.

" _I love you, Sans._ "

" _Please be good._ "

" _It will be okay, Sans._ "

He wondered if this would be called an obsession.

He wondered if he kept this up, he would believe that he wouldn't be able to get his head out of the clouds. Out of his little magic tricks on creating a Sybil that only said a few words, that only giggled, that was only a figment of his imagination.

" _I love you, Sans._ "

The magic hologram twirled again, and he saw her smile. The squinting of her eyes. The fullness of her lashes before she had started her chemo. 

Sans stopped moving his hand. His magic stopped, and the hologram of Sybil disappeared.

A tear rolled down his cheek. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys fucking rock, oh my goooooodddddd. y'all enjoy this chapter! i like how i'm making you confused and sad and eager for more. i am, after all, a hell of a sadist.
> 
> follow me on tumblr for updates and shitposting:  
> http://smallybells.tumblr.com/

_A girl had entered you in a dream, and with her she brought hope. Her hair a wild, curly red frizz, while her eyes were blue. Sapphire, with rings of pure titanium circling her pupils. Freckles dotted over the apples of her alabaster cheeks, and crunched together when her smile widened. She was of wide hips and a gentle waist, and as she moved and twirled, raising her arms to brush her red curls that sneaked its way under her shirt, you could see that her freckles were spread throughout her arms and shoulders, and possibly everywhere else._

_She looked just like you._

_In the dream, the girl had laughed, and her laughter rang like chimes through the cold air. And she hopped along the blackness of your dream; with each step brought more color, a clear vision of your surroundings. The walls were whitewashed—ancient and plastered—and crumbling in the corners, floors dusty and uneven, but the more she walked the brighter the room was, and polished and clean were the cold, hard planks. You knew you were dreaming, but there was a nagging sensation in the back of your mind that said you weren't._

_With some effort, you tore your gaze away from the girl and at the room. Initially, you thought it was your own, but it had the scent of wood and paint. The bed you were in was most definitely not your own. It was much smaller than yours, with plain white sheets that, eerily, felt like it had just got out of the dryer._

_Then, you looked at the girl, who smiled at you and shuffled towards you from across the room, her long skirt rustling with each step. Self-consciously, you pulled the sheet over your body, and pulled your knees to your chest._

_"Who are you?" you asked. Your voice sounded strange—it did not sound like your own. It sounded afraid. "Are... are you—?"_

_"I'm Sybil."_

_You were positive your mouth was hanging open in awe, but you didn't possess the necessary motor skills to close it. "B-But... Frisk and I... we were just..."_

_"And why, you wonder, would you dream about me? And how, you question, are you talking to someone you have never met?"_

_"Y-Yes," you stammered. You licked your lips. "Yes, exactly."_

_She smiled, and sat at the foot of the bed. "Maybe you're having a dream. Or a vision. Or maybe I'm the one who is having a dream... though it's pretty difficult for the dead to dream."_

_"Are you a ghost?" you blurted out, confusion taking over._

_"You can say that," Sybil laughed. "Or maybe I'm just... trapped. Sans's desperation for me is allowing me to stay. Or my love for him is preventing me to leave. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory... Whatever exists out there. Reincarnation, even, but it seems you have filled that position for me already." She had a silly grin, and she moved closer, lifting the sheets to lay next to you. And when you stiffened, Sybil frowned and furrowed her eyebrows. "Don't worry, I won't bite. I promise you."_

_While she made herself comfortable, you felt the urge to draw more answers from her. "Who's Sans?"_

_She sighed, propping up a pillow and letting her head lay against it. "That sack of bones you saw at Grillby's. The one who wanted to_ bone _you. And a year ago, when crossing paths on the street. Am I correct?"_

_Despite yourself, you laughed at her pun. "Yeah. You're right."_

_"I wish, for his sake, he would move on. Loss is a terrible thing, but so is clinging onto the last remnants. I have entered his dreams with every little strength I can conjure, and I try to tell him. I try to tell him to move forward, to love again, to enjoy what little the human lands has to offer. But he refuses to listen, and he clings onto me; begging for me to come back, crying out his love for me, needy for my touch and words. And when he wakes, he looks for me. Calls for me. And realizes that it's just a dream. But it's not just a dream, it's a_ message. _He's still so stricken with grief that he can't tell between his dreams, and the harshness of reality..."_

 _She sounded so tired. She_ looked _tired. It was then you noticed the dark circles forming rapidly under her eyes, and the color draining from the rosiness of her cheeks. Her blue eyes were suddenly a shimmering, cloudy blue, and red-rimmed as she fought back tears._

_"Why... why are you telling me this?" you asked, disbelief in your voice. "What do I have to do with this? Why am I even here?"_

_She reached out and held your hand, a tell-tale sign of a sorrowful smile that was once warm. "For one; you look like me, save for your eyes and your smile, and my nose is longer than yours. The resemblance between us is uncanny, and that's what drew Sans's attention to you. He thought you were me, when he first saw you. And when I observed that, I thought that maybe... maybe you could be someone that could help Sans get back on his feet. Someone who can guide him and get his head out of the clouds. And because of that, well..."_

_You leaned forward a bit, creasing your eyebrows in rapt interest._

_"I put part of my soul in yours."_

_You watched mutely for a few long seconds, until you began to sputter._

_"Wh-What? My soul? Your soul? I mean—I've monsters showing humans their souls, explaining the colors and traits. I-I work with human and monster children for a living, I've heard them explain the magic in their blood—Sybil, how the hell is this_ possible? _"_

_She giggled. "There's magic deep in this Earth. Us humans do not have the ability to naturally expose ourselves to magic, but we can learn. And since I'm dead, living in this corpse of a room, I garnished the ability to at least view souls, and observe and practice. A year in the human world feels like ten in here."_

_You were startled by the amount of information that was spilled onto your lap. But you could only nod silently, and wet your lips. You parted your mouth a few times, wanting to speak and ask more questions, but you saw your surroundings fog and drained of color. You looked at Sybil, whose smile was wide as ever, and her eyes twinkled._

_"He may not know us by the sound of our voice, but he will know us by our words. I want him to listen, I want him to understand. Because someday, I will no longer be here in this cold and lonely room. I will be somewhere else._ Someone _else. And the only piece left of me will be in you."_

_You shivered, and pulled the covers and tightly pressed them against your shivering frame. The room grew dimmer, grew colder, grew more of a distant memory rather than an ethereal dream. "Sybil, will we—?"_

_"Yes," she smiled. "We'll see each other again."_

 

_You turned to your side._

 

_You caught your own reflection on the dressing mirror propped up against the wall._

 

_But it wasn't your own reflection._

 

_She smiled._

* * *

You shot up from the bed as if a gun had gone off in your ear. You were screaming; you didn't know why, but you couldn't stop yourself when tears streamed down your face in salty rivulets. You felt so completely full in emotion—in _her_ emotions, and you couldn't bear it. You didn't even hear the soft coos of Toriel when she tried to calm you, and much like in your dream you pulled your knees to your chest, and rested your forehead against them, hiccuping and murmuring incoherent words.

Of course, your cries had startled Frisk, whose feet you heard pattering against the wooden flooring, and had also caught the attention of a larger monster of blue skin and scales, and vibrant red hair, along with a smaller one who resembled much like a reptile. 

"Shh, it's okay, dear, it's okay..." Toriel murmured, rubbing your shoulder in firm circles with her thumb. "It's okay, child..."

You wiped your face of tears and raised your head, realizing that you were indeed not in Toriel's apartment, and most definitely you were not in your apartment, but you were in a room that much resembled like the one in your dreams. The same bed, the same mirror; it was as if nothing had been moved, nothing had been dusted or touched in ages. You felt the bed dip slightly, and you focused on the figure of Frisk placing their hands on your covered legs, and a worried look was painted on their face.

"I'm... I'm okay," you whispered, voice shaking and trembling like an earthquake. "I'm okay. Thank you." 

"Night terror, huh?" the fish-like monster commented, crossing her arms over her chest and resting her shoulder against the doorway. "Hah! What a total ween—"

"Th-There's nothing to b-be ashamed about that!" the smaller monster quickly cut her off. "We all g-get them at some point..."

Toriel ignored the two bantering, and she pulled the covers over you. "You gave us quite a scare, ______." 

"Y-Yeah, sorry," you said, looking down at the blankets. "And... I don't even remember the dream."

 

It was a lie.

 

You said it so they wouldn't question you.

 

They didn't have to know. Not the strangers, not Frisk, and not even Toriel.

 

"I'll make you some tea, dear. Come, let's give her some space."

 

You watched them leave the room in peace, quietly shutting the door and leaving you alone in this cold, lifeless room. 

And you looked over to the nightstand, where the lamp collected dust and the picture frame carried the photo of Sybil during her treatment. 

 

Her hair gone.

 

Her eyes sad.

 

But her smile wide, and her spirit viable. 

 

You felt yourself tear up again.

 

_He won't remember us by the sound of our voice,_

_but he will know us by our words._

 

How?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said i was gonna update last week, but then a sinus infection hit me hard and i took days off of work and school. but during that time i was planning and thinking of some chapter ideas, so i promise i didn't abandon you!! thank you all for your wonderful and touching comments as always. ;u;

"i can't do it, toriel. i can't form words." 

Toriel set her teacup down and tilted her head to the side. "What do you mean?"

Sans sighed deeply, and hunched forward. His elbows were on the table, and his palm was pressed up against his temple. "i can't find words like she did," he continued. "i... i can't remember how she did it. i don't even know if she _did_ tell me how. she just... made them with ease. she unfolded my hands and just dumped it on there, and closed it to keep it for myself." 

She pressed her lips together. Her tongue felt dry, and she allowed him to continue.

"she was a fucking _goddess_ of words. i still remember them. i remember what she first said to me, when she first said 'i love you,' even her last words... her last _fucking_ words. _god,_ i hate her. i hate her so much. i would say something along the lines of, 'she came into our lives like a tsunami,' or some shit. it doesn't sound right," a bitter, rueful chuckle left him. Toriel felt a shiver run down her spine. "yeah, tsunamis wreck everything. tear homes down. break families apart. and sybil broke us. we all cried, we all got fucked up. but after tsunamis people pick things back up. it takes months, but everything gets cleaned, and all that's left is the memory." 

Toriel watched him as his pupils disappear in his skull, the corners of his eyes water up. He didn't dare let them fall.

They had their conversations occasionally, conversations that usually end up being about Frisk of Sybil. 

But Toriel felt as if something led him on. 

And she had a hunch. 

"no, she was an earthquake. she left us all trembling, desperately waiting for the next round of _shit_ she'll bring." 

Toriel took a hesitant sip of her tea.

 

"i fucking hate her."

 

The tea burned her tongue. Her eyes watered up. 

 

"i fucking hate her, toriel. i want her out of my mind. i wish i never met her." 

 

Her eyes continued to water up. Was it really from the scorching tea?

 

"i regret everything i had to do with her." 

 

Toriel said nothing, but wiped her eyes with the back of her paw. "What led you to say this now?" she asked. "It's been a year, and you choose to say this now. Why is that?"

"you must think i'm _heartless,_ don'tcha?"

There was no humor in his pun. "I'm genuinely curious, Sans. What makes you say this now?" 

He shrugged. "guess it's time to move on."

"You're a terrible liar."

 

"If you never met her, you would have never heard her words."

 

"If you never met her, you wouldn't know what it was like to actually love someone unconditionally."

 

"You wouldn't have known comfort."

 

"stop."

 

"You wouldn't have known intimacy. You wouldn't have known the goodness of humans." 

 

" _stop it._ "

 

"Is it ______?"

 

Sans froze a bit. There was a flash of your face in his head. A flash of Sybil's smile. "what about her? you know her?"

 

"Ah, so you've met her," Toriel mused. "and her uncanny resemblance to Sybil." 

 

Yes, the red curls that would tangle so easily around his hand. Freckles thrown on her face. Her toothy smile. The crinkle of her eyes. The wrinkle of her nose. 

And you, who bore many of the same traits, apart from your teeth and eyes. You had the same nose, round cheeks, soft lips. 

 

If only you kept your mouth shut,

if only you didn't _speak,_

you could be Sybil. 

 

"how do you know her?"

"Mothers always put pieces of a puzzle together. Mothers always find out the truth behind things," she sipped her tea matter-of-factly, and had a smile on her face. "She tutors Frisk on Wednesdays and Sundays." 

"get them a new tutor." 

"That's very unlikely, Sans."

He rested his forehead on the table. "what do you want me to do?"

"Talk to her," she murmured. "At least show some decency." 

"i already did."

"Inviting her for sex isn't talking." 

"how did you—" he raised his head for a bit, then closed his eyes. "never mind. i shouldn't even ask that anymore." 

"Just..." Toriel rubbed her eyes. "please. Talk to her. She's a very nice girl, and I'm sure you'll come to like her." 

 

No.

 

No, he won't.

 

"i'm leaving."

 

"Where?"

 

"you know where."

 

"Sans," Toriel stopped him, holding out her hand before he could disappear. "Someday, those flowers will be silent. Someday, her voice would... disappear..."

 

He knows.

* * *

After your vision, you stayed in Sybil's bed for a long time. You were formally introduced to Undyne and Alphys, who brought you a cup of tea and honey to soothe you from your "night terror." Toriel went back to her apartment, while Frisk stayed with you. Your final sobs dislodged from your throat, and Frisk sat at the foot of the bed, their small hands patting your legs that were covered with Sybil's blankets. Frisk then crawled towards you and rested their head on your stomach, a motion of comfort. You ran your hands through their soft, brown hair, and closed your dreary eyes. 

_He won't remember us by the sound of our voice,_

_but he will know us by our words._

"Frisk?" you said. "What was Sybil really like?"

You wanted an opinion.

That maybe, just maybe, your vision was really not a vision, but a dream. 

Maybe she was completely different than what you have seen. 

They lifted their head, and their hands began to move.

" _She was nice. She was like a sister... another mother... She was so nice..._ "

You nod. "So, she was... maternal..."

" _She loved us like we were her family. She always wanted to help... I don't think I remember seeing her angry... And she was so patient..._ "

_I want him to listen, I want him to understand._

"She would want everyone to be happy," you whispered. "She would want everyone to move on."

" _yeah. she would._ "

You sat up, and Frisk moved so they sat on their knees. You rubbed your eyes, and stare at Frisk for a long time before you wet your lips. 

"Would you believe me if... I said that I saw her?" you whispered. "I saw her... in this room. Her hair was like mine, red and big and curly... She had such blue eyes, and a smile that was contagious. And... and her voice... she sounded so gentle, so loving, and so caring... I-I can tell why you loved her..."

Frisk teared up. 

"Would you believe me, Frisk?"

They wiped their eyes with the back of their hand, and moved so they wrapped their arms around you, resting their small head on your shoulder. You heard their quivers, their soft breaths. 

 

"I believe you."

 

Their voice was so coarse. So small, so diminutive.

 

It was the first time you heard them. 

 

You wrapped your arms back around Frisk, and pulled them in tightly.

 

"What do I do, Frisk?" you shook. "She told me to help you... she told me to help Sans... Sh-She... she put her soul inside me... She said that... you will know that she's with us... by our words. What do I say, Frisk? How can I do this?" 

They pulled away, and extended their hands in attempt to wipe your tears. Instead, they smeared it more, and it caused you to give them a tiny, thin smile.

"How can I do this, Frisk?"

They patted your head. You choked on a sob.

 

"I can feel her emotions... I can hear her voice, her words, her laughter. I feel her touch... Her scent is everywhere..." 

 

You watched as as small stream of tears ran down Frisk's cheeks, and you returned the favor my wiping it away with your thumb. 

 

" _Just keep doing the same things,_ " they signed. " _Keep singing. Keep tutoring me. Keep having tea with mom. Let Sybil help you, let her guide you..._ "

 

Your breaths evened.

 

"But I can never be like her."

 

" _No one can ever be like Sybil,_ " they signed again. " _but Sybil can't replace you either._ "

* * *

It was a darkening afternoon whose final shafts of light beamed between trees and buildings, swinging across the earth like beacons. You left the apartment building as the sun began to set, and the moon rising to make their faint appearance. Twigs and leaves crunched beneath your boots when you walked along the sidewalks. A bleating bird skipped over trees. Branches swayed and clapped against each other. 

The further you walked to your apartment, the faster the sun waned and melted. Crows wheeled in the amethyst sky. You heard hidden water gurgle nearby, and when you caught sight of it you saw a sheet of lacy ice covering the water and prevented reflections. All you could see in the pool was darkness. 

The ray had vanished.

The dark clouds had connected together. 

Your feet continued to drag along the piles of leaves and clots of soil, until a bus stop came into view. Although your eyes and soul were drained, and your mind was a dizzying sense of confusion, you sat on the bench at the bus stop and set your bag on your lap. The clouds were now as thick and drab as concrete, and your tongue was getting dry.

A bus pulled up and it opened, revealing an elderly man with a beard that would put Santa to shame. You stood up, and walked up the steps.

"Where does this bus go?" you asked the man. He laughed, a watery chuckle that you weren't sure if it was pleasing to the ears. 

"Anywhere, little miss." 

You looked at the mountains. "Can we go to Mt. Ebott?" 

"Ya wanna go to Waterfall, huh? Seems like it's a nice attraction, but it's gettin' quiet these days..." 

You stared at the mountains again.

"Why, you got a date there?"

A fleck of rain hit the windshields. Gingerly, you shook your head.

"No. Just want to get my mind off of things."


End file.
